


HEART

by ysse_writes



Category: The Avengers (2012), Thor (2011)
Genre: I have no idea what I'm doing, Lokifeels, M/M, WIP
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-06-20
Updated: 2012-07-08
Packaged: 2017-11-08 05:14:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/439543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ysse_writes/pseuds/ysse_writes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thor and Loki return with an interesting offer for the Avengers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Arrangement

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: While I wish many of these characters were mine, sadly, they are not. All Marvel characters and situations belong to Marvel and their creators, obviously. 
> 
> Notes and Warnings: Post Avengers. Clint/Loki. Possible dubcon in later chapters. 
> 
> Other things you may need to know:  
> (1) I have not read a Marvel comic book since I was a child and therefore woefully ignorant of the lore. I’ve also mostly ignored Norse mythology except when I could twist it to my nefarious needs. Basically, though, movieverse all the way.  
> (2) This is my first story in this fandom. In addition, except for participating in yuletide, I have not written stories/fics for nearly a decade now. Rusty doesn’t even begin to cover it.  
> (3) This story is dreadfully self-indulgent. I just want to cuddle movieverse!Loki and make everything all better for him.  
> 4) WIP alert. Okay, honestly, I hate WIPs, but if I don't post each chapter as I finish, I will just keep working on the same chapter forever. For the sake of my sanity, I have to post so I can move on to the next chapter.  
> 5) As always, I suck at summaries and titles. Suggestions welcome.  
> 6) I appreciate any and all comments. Also, I'm looking for a beta, if anyone out there is interested.  
> 7) I talk too much. Also, I'm kind of needy.

 

Six months gone, and the wall in Clint’s head is very nearly complete. _Don’t think about it_ , Tasha had said, and Clint very determinedly doesn’t. Tasha is smart, Tasha is kind of an expert about these things, so he follows her advice. It was just another mission, another threat they faced, another bad guy they stopped. Been there, done that, and nothing to do but to shake it off and move on to the next mission.

Until he walks into the SHIELD war room to find Loki seated there, free, with only his brother’s hand on his shoulder in lieu of any fetters, and the wall comes crashing down.

His hand reaches back for an arrow before he even thinks, before anything but red can register. He’d debated changing from his work clothes before joining the meeting, but the missive had read URGENT. He’s fiercely glad for the decision now. One swift smooth move and arrow flies, fast and sure as a bullet, towards Loki’s eye. Someone screams, everyone moves, but Clint can see they’re too slow, and he has a microsecond of near boneless relief, of _it’s over_ , before Loki’s hand calmly rises and plucks the arrow from the air just before it pierces skin.

Clint is already moving, already on him, knocking him down to the floor, pummeling Loki with every bit of strength and rage he’s kept bottled up since the first time they locked eyes and Loki stole his soul. He’s always been a cold fighter—careful, precise, calculated—it’s what makes him such a good agent.  Later, he'll be embarrassed about this loss of control, this purely animalistic reaction, but for now he revels in every punch that connects. It takes Thor _and_ Steve Rogers to drag him off, but he keeps fighting, keeps kicking. Loki merely looks up at the ceiling and doesn’t say anything.

It’s only later that Clint remembers Loki doesn’t fight back, doesn’t even put up his hands to protect himself from Clint’s onslaught. That he merely lays there and allows Clint to pummel at him, as if waiting out the ineffectual blows of a child’s temper tantrum. Each time he remembers, Clint’s entire body shakes with rage.

“Stand down, Agent,” Nick Fury barks. He looks at Loki, who is still on the floor.  “You good?” he asks.

“You’re not serious,” Clint seethes, still struggling, surprised he can actually talk without screaming obscenities.

“Stand down or I’ll have you removed,” the Director says again.

By some unspoken agreement, Thor and Rogers deliver him into Tasha’s care. She says nothing, her face carefully blank, but she grips both his hands, hiding the way they tremble.

Thor goes back to Loki’s side, helping him up.  “Are you alright, brother?”

Loki shakes his brother’s hand off as soon as he’s on his feet.

“Now, everyone sit down and shut up.” Fury looks over at Clint once, but thankfully doesn’t dress him down or make excuses for his actions. Instead, Fury nods as everyone moves back to their chairs. Thor rights Loki’s chair before gesturing for him to sit down.

“I told you,” Clint hears Loki say to Thor, his voice low. “This is pointless. They will never—“

“Hush, brother,” Thor returns. “Hush and let me be the one to speak.”

The room settles, somewhat, because when all is said and done, in their collective experience, fisticuffs with a supernatural being isn’t really that big of a deal.

 

“So, is anyone going to explain what’s going on?” Tasha says, all serene curiosity on the surface, but Clint knows the quieter her voice gets, the more deadly serious she is. She looks at each of the other Avengers in turn. “No offense, but I’m still recovering from the last time we were all in the same city together.”

“Aww,” Tony Stark says, giving her a wink.  “I’ve missed you, too.”

“All we ask is that you hear us out,” Thor says. “We come in peace!”

Stark snorts, and even Tasha’s lips twitch a bit.

“Sorry, big guy,” says Stark, almost cheerfully, “but the psycho beside you? Makes for a very unconvincing argument. I vote we follow Barton’s lead and just have us a Welcome Back Loki bash.” He looks at Bruce Banner. “You in, Bruce?”

Banner smiles. For a very laid-back guy, he can look pretty menacing when he wants. Thor looks faintly alarmed. Loki merely looks bored.

“Why are you even back?” Rogers asks, finally speaking up. “We let you leave with Loki because you assured us he would be punished by your people. He nearly flattens an entire city, and what? Your father lets him off the hook and brings him back down here for a second—make that a third—round? I guess nepotism is alive and well in Asgard.”

“Our father is not condoning Loki’s crimes,” Thor assures him.  “In fact, that is the reason we have returned. I explained to our father that it was a common practice on Midgard to allow those who have committed wrongdoings to atone by performing good deeds.”

“Community service?” Stark laughs, disbelievingly. “He wants to do community service?”

“Yes!” Thor seems proud of himself, happy that Stark understands. ”The Lady Darcy explained the concept to me while we were watching a play unfold on your television contraption.“

Clint wishes that, like Stark, he could laugh at the ludicrousness of it all. He clenches his fists.  “I want to hear it from him,” he manages, finally, jerking his head in Loki’s direction. “The truth. I want him to tell us why he’s really here.”

Loki looks at him, finally, and the red haze begins to recede, the roaring in his blood stills. And Clint is right back where he was six months ago, when he could see nothing but Loki’s eyes, hear nothing but his voice.

“The truth,” Loki repeats, softly. “Very well.” 

But something is different, Clint thinks. The Loki he remembers was all nervous energy, eyes all ablaze with his so-called glorious purpose. Crazy as he was, the Loki he had known was involved, even hands-on. This version is calm, too calm. The arrogance and the disdain remain, but now there is distance, as if he has built a wall of his own.  Still larger than life, but somehow muted. Clint’s eyes fall on the delicate strands of silver encircling Loki’s wrists. Those are new as well. As far as Clint could tell, Loki’s taste in jewelry had tended to lean more towards golden horns and jeweled scepters.

“I do not want to be here," Loki says. "I do not want to join your band of so-called heroes. But, as always, I have no choice. The All-Father has decided that this is to be my fate and that I must follow. He has decided that this will be my punishment, my penance. That I should be so humiliated. And I—” despite the flatness of his voice, the sarcasm is unmistakable, "—am ever the obedient son of Odin.”

He stands up, faces them all.

“This is the long and short of it," he continues. His tone remains level. It's the same tone the Director uses when he offers Clint missions he already knows Clint has no choice but to accept.  "For keeping me here, for helping to guard me, for offering me what Odin hopes will be a lesson in compassion and humility, and for relieving him of the inconvenience of dealing with me himself, Odin pledges my powers and abilities, such as they are now, to your cause. I will fight by your side. I will perform acts of bravery and charity in your name. I will dance to whatever tune you choose to play. I will be your slave—“

“Brother!”

“—until such time that Odin believes I am again worthy to stand in his presence.”

“Do not twist his words so,” Thor protests. “You know that is not Father’s intent.”

“And if you fail?” Tasha challenges, and there’s a gleam in her eyes that Clint understands too well. “If you break the agreement?”

“Then I return to Asgard,” Loki says, flatly. “And Odin must deal with me once and for all.”

“And you agreed to this why?” Banner demands. “Listening to you now, you sound like you’d rather just start another war and force his hand. Why shouldn't we believe that’s exactly what you’re planning to do?”

It takes a moment for Loki to answer. “I swore an oath.”

“I don’t buy it,” Stark says. “Let’s put aside the issue of just how binding this oath may or many not be. If you hate him so much, how did Odin get you to swear it?”

It’s always quid pro quo with Stark. He’s too much of a businessman to believe anything is ever for free.

The barb hits and Loki glares at Stark, finally showing his temper. “This is the arrangement Odin offers,” he growls, and there is the Loki Clint remembers.  “Accept or refuse, it makes very little difference to me.” 

He storms out. They all begin to rise to stop him, but Fury shakes his head. “We’ve got it covered,” he says. From the shadows, several shapes separate and retreat, presumably to follow Loki.

 

Thor’s eyes follow his brother, returning only to the Avengers after Loki has gone.

“What did he mean ‘such as they are now’?” Tasha asks. Trust Tasha to hone in on any implied weakness.

“I’d still like an answer to my question,” Stark says, at the same time. “Trust me, I know all about daddy issues, and your brother has them in spades. There’s no way he would have let himself willingly be brought here, swear an ‘oath’ like that,”—here Stark actually makes air quotes—“King of Asgard or no.”

“He did not give his oath to our father,” Thor answers, somberly. “He gave it to our mother. It is why I still hold hope. He will not be swayed by our father’s threats, yet he yields to our mother’s tears.” He sighs. “I know my brother,” he says. “He will not say so, but I know he wants this. He was hurt. Certain events transpired that I have only recently been made aware, and certain truths have come to light.”  He raises his arm, halting Rogers’ instinctive outrage. “I am not excusing his behavior, nor belittling the damage he caused. I am saying that I know my brother, and I know his heart, better than anyone. And I know spending time in Midgard can help him, change him, just as it has changed me.”

He places his hammer on the table, puts his hand over its head. “The terms of the arrangement are binding to me as well,” he continues. “As long as you allow Loki to serve out his sentence here, you will have me as well. I will make certain Loki poses no threat to Midgard, and you will have the strength of my arms and my Mjǫlnir to aid you in your battles. You will have my gratitude, as well as the gratitude of Asgard and its king. Surely, you must see how such an arrangement can be to your advantage?” His tone is as near to pleading as a nearly seven-foot-tall god of thunder can manage.

Nobody answers. As convincing as Thor is, as good as the arrangement sounds on paper, they all know that the presence of the two Asgard gods is an invitation to disaster.

“There’s one more thing,” Nick Fury adds, breaking the too-long pause. “As a gesture of goodwill, Odin has sent us a gift.”

“You son of a bitch,” Stark says, pouncing on the information. “I knew it. You power-hungry bastard. I knew you wouldn’t be this agreeable if a bribe wasn’t involved. What is it? What did he give you?”

Thor shakes his head. “It is not a bribe,” he corrects. “It is an offering of peace. A token of—“

“Spill it,” Stark continues, ignoring Thor, still intent on Fury. “What did your new sugar daddy give you? Did he give you a piece of the tesseract? Did he promise you shiny Asgardian technology, maybe inter-dimensional travel? What could be so fucking big that you’d agree to this?”

Fury just looks at Stark impassively, then pushes a button on his console. “It’s not a what,” he says.

A screen pulls up, and a view of one of SHIELD’s debriefing rooms shows Maria Hill seated across the table from Phil Coulson.

Phil Coulson, smiling his patented unfathomable smile and very much alive.

“It’s a who.”


	2. The Mansion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Avengers+Loki move in together. Sadly, this story is not as fun and sexy as that sounds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long!  
> A million thanks to lorienwillow and ipsius, lovely women and betas extraordinaire, for their help!  
> GIANT SQUISHY THANK YOUS to all who sent kudoses (?) and comments! (More? Yes, please!)

Clint whistles as the cab lets him off at 890 Fifth Avenue, staring at the imposing building behind the massive 12-foot gates.

“Three weeks,” Stark had said gleefully, making some calculations on his science-fictiony tablet/phone/thingamajig. “I’ll need three weeks to get our base ready.  The Helicarrier is too vulnerable, and Pepper will kill me if we destroy Stark Tower again. But I have a townhouse in New York. It’ll be perfect.” Stark had actually looked excited, as if he’d given a new problem to solve or a new project to work on.  “Seriously, this is the most stupendous idea ever, it’ll be great fun!” Rogers had made a choking noise, and Stark had conceded that, “Okay, _maybe_ it’s the most Godawful idea in the world, we will all die horribly, and it’ll all be Fury’s fault, but, c’mon, Cap, where’s your sense of adventure?” Banner had gone slightly green at the thought of having to live with _anyone_ , much less two trained-to-kill SHIELD agents, two Norse gods—one clearly a psychopath—one super soldier, and, well, one Tony Stark. And possibly a whole gaggle of sentient machinery secretly out to destroy all mankind. Clint had almost felt sorry for the guy.

But still. A _townhouse_ , Stark had said. 

This was no townhouse; this was a fucking _museum_.

“I know, right?” Tasha says, the first to arrive, as always. He walks up to her just as Banner arrives.

“Oh, good,” Banner says, in that tone of his. “I was worried it wouldn’t be big enough.”

Clint looks him suspiciously, but Tasha only smirks.

“Holy Mother of—” breathes Rogers, finally joining them, his eyes impossibly round.

“We know!” The three of them respond in unison, and they all begin laughing.

A limousine pulls up, and a passenger window goes down. “Well, this looks promising,” Stark says, peering at them from over his sunglasses. “We all here?”

“Thor and Loki aren’t here yet,” Rogers says. “You think they got lost?” 

“Oh, they’re already inside,” Stark says. “They’ve been here a while. I needed Thor to help me move the house.”

Tasha raises one eyebrow. “You mean help you move _into_ the house?” she suggests, helpfully.

“Nope,” Stark says, grinning.  “The _house_. Like, back, 35 feet. ”

Rogers’ eyes widen again (honestly, the guy needs to get out more) and even Banner seems impressed.

The limousine door opens and Stark steps out. On cue, the massive gates begin to open, and Clint can practically hear the strains of _O Fortuna_ playing in his head. “Welcome, Avengers,” Stark says, with a dramatic wave of his arms. “To Avengers House!”

 

Because he is a fucking drama queen, Stark insists they do a “hero walk” to the mansion in case there are news helicopters overhead.

_“You just weren’t ready,” Tasha tells him as they leave the war room._

_“Were you?” he returns._

_“I found out just as you did,” she says. “But I haven’t been away for six months. There was scuttlebutt so I knew it was going to be something big. Plus, I knew we were all coming.”_

_“My message just said to return to HQ,” Clint complains. He really really hates Fury right now._

_“You just weren’t ready,” Tasha says again. “You’ll be ready next time.”_

“Bedrooms on the second floor,” Stark says, as they come to the main staircase, “choose any empty room you like. Except for Ms. Romanoff here, I’ve prepared a special one for her.” He waggles his eyebrows at Tasha, who promptly threatens evisceration if she finds hidden cameras in her bathroom. This is what passes as humor in SHIELD, and apparently, now with the Avengers. Because, of course, there are cameras everywhere. But Clint sees everything, and already he is cataloging every nook and cranny, every blind spot, every corner that could provide cover.

“Find a room,” Stark says, “freshen up, grand tour in half an hour.”  Stark offers Tasha his arm. Surprisingly, she takes it, allowing Stark to lead her away. Rogers takes the first empty room he sees and Banner takes the one furthest away from the stairs, but Clint checks each one carefully, analyzing access and defensibility, along with dozens of other factors. The rooms are all equally luxurious. Outside of SHIELD, Clint keeps a serviceable apartment and two saferooms in strategic locations around the world. All three would have fit nicely inside any one of these bedrooms. Finally, he chooses the one with the best view of the grounds.   

There’s a balcony. He opens its doors wide, and tells himself to breathe.

 

_“Sir,” Clint says. “Director. I_ can’t _.”_

_Fury looks at him impassively. “In all the years I’ve known you, Agent Barton, I’ve never heard those words come out of your mouth.”_

_“Then it should tell you something. You can’t seriously ask this of me.”_

_“I am,” Fury says. “And I’m not just asking you to play along, I’m asking you to make it work.”_

_Clint shakes his head. He’s not the man for this. Didn’t he just prove it?_

_“Who else am I going to ask?” Fury says. “I need you on this. You’re the one who knows him best, barring Thor, and we know that man’s got a blind spot the size of Texas when it comes to his brother.  You’ve spent the most time with him. You_ know _him.”_

_“He knows me, too,” says Clint. “You don’t know—”_

You don't know what I’ve already given him _, Clint thinks, desperately._

 _“He_ thinks _he knows you,” Fury corrects. “He thinks he knows all of us. But he’s wrong.”_

_“Sir,” he tries again, and Fury raises his hand, stilling any further objections._

_“We’ve got to play ball for now, but if the game changes, you’ll see it first. These are your orders. Observe. Report. Don’t get compromised.”_

_Clint doesn’t know if he should be angry or grateful the Director didn’t say “again.”_

 

The “grand tour” takes hours. There’s the main floor, which is pretty much how Clint imagined it would be, luxury-wise. He’s not a total hick, he’s been in mansions before, when he was undercover or served as a bodyguard for some VIP, but it still kind of blows his mind that he’s going to be living here for the foreseeable future. Stark tells them to keep out of the third floor for now, because it’s not quite ready yet.  He mutters something about hangars and launch privileges and freaking union hours.

And then he shows them the sublevels. “Candyland,” Stark announces, as the elevator doors open, and Clint can’t think of a more apt description. Three subground floors of clearly assigned areas and state-of-the-art equipment. Among others, there’s an arsenal, a containment room, a fully functioning operation theater, a boxing ring (complete with sparring robots), a gym, a scenario generator, a lab for Banner, a workroom for Stark, and a target practice range that Stark-oh-for-the-love-of-God-Barton-call-me-Tony-we’re-going-to-be-roommates says is for everyone but was clearly designed for Clint. “There’s fun stuff, too,” he adds, as they pass through an indoor pool (because, obviously—Clint thinks, wryly—having an outside pool wasn’t enough. After all, what if it rained? ), a basketball court, and a laser tag maze. There might even be a bouncy castle somewhere, Clint wouldn’t be too surprised.

“Daddy, I want a pony,” Clint mock-whines, only to be told blandly that the horses are off the grounds, stabled nearer the park. Then, he leads them to the underground garage where he tells each of them to pick out a car, any car, for their exclusive use.

Tony Stark never does anything halfway.

_Clint spends the three weeks preparing._

_He has his mission, and he knows what to do._

_He trains harder than he’s ever trained before, forgoing sleep and meals for endless hours on the target range, in the gym, on the field.  He comes home bloodied and battered every so often—when he has to, when Fury threatens to revoke his privileges if he doesn’t go home and get the blood washed off because he’s starting to scare the trainees. Clint smirks wryly and obeys, and Fury leaves him alone as long as he stays away for at least four hours._

_For three weeks he ignores Tasha’s calls, programming his phone to auto-reply with terse text messages so she won’t worry._ Training. Can’t talk. See you in a few.

_Ask Clint and he’ll tell you that, if he loves anyone, he loves Natasha Romanoff. He trusts her as much as he can trust anyone, a trust that is as illogical as much as it is unquestioning.  He doesn’t know if Tasha feels the same, but he knows that if she tried to kill him tonight and failed, and then showed up the next morning with coffee and bear claws to critique his form, he would let her. And he knows that if he announced that he was spending ten years in a cave gazing at his navel, she’d be outside that cave ten years and one day later, probably shooting at him to check if he’d stayed mission-ready.  Tasha is the only person whose advice he actually listens to, whose opinion he actually gives a damn about._

_But he can’t talk to Tasha about this._ Don’t think about it, _Tasha had said, and for six months, Clint didn’t._

_But the truth—the horrible, sickening truth—is he remembers._

_He remembers the exact moment Loki had looked into his eyes. “You have heart,” he’d said, and Clint remembers feeling that he’d finally been seen, finally been found. He remembers being ready to die for Loki, unasked, unbidden; remembers being so sure. He remembers Loki’s voice whispering instructions in his ear, even from half a world away, and knowing he would follow that voice anywhere. He remembers feeling, maybe for the first time ever, that he has a place in the world.  He remembers the promises Loki made, and remembers believing every one._

_He remembers_ loving _Loki, remembers giving him every part of him that he’d been keeping back, even that part that he hadn’t been able to give to Tasha._

_And he remembers waking up and finding that none of it was real._

 

Dinner is Chinese take-out, because one of the things Rogers had been adamant about was that the fewer civilians around them, the better.  This isn’t a problem Stark assures them, nearly everything in Avengers House (Avengers _Mansion_ , Clint’s head always corrects) is automated.

Except for food, Stark admits.  Food could be a problem.  Apparently, JARVIS could launch WWIII if he wanted to, but he still can’t manage a decent lasagna.

“I’m only as capable as my programming, Sir,” JARVIS says, in the drollest AI voice Clint has ever heard.

Rogers claims that he can cook, and Banner reluctantly reveals that he knows a few recipes from being on his own for so long.  Tasha just looks at them all levelly, and even Stark backs down from the mild challenge in her eyes. Clint can cook—all orphans can—but he doesn’t really like his own cooking, so he volunteers to do the daily pick-ups instead. 

Thor and Loki join them, finally. Even over Thor’s boisterous greetings Clint registers the slight but unmistakable pause in the conversation, the unspoken tension, the furtive gazes in his direction. Even Thor gives him a pregnant look, keeping one protective hand on Loki’s shoulder.

Clint had seen Thor in plainclothes in New Mexico, but he’s slightly taken aback by the sight of Loki in soft black jeans and a dark green shirt, the silver strands around his wrists incongruous against the dark cloth. He’s still the tallest one after Thor, but he looks smaller without his leather and armor and the maniacal gleam in his eyes. This Loki looks thin, pale—nothing like the grandiose leader of the Chitauri invasion. This Loki looks soft, slightly wary, but no more out of place or extraordinary than any of the room’s other occupants.

Thor seats his brother first, leaning down to whisper something in Loki’s ear, too low for the others to hear.

But Clint sees everything, and body language is just another level of seeing, like hand signals, like lip reading.

“Do not worry. I will be right here, brother.”

“Eat up, people,” Rogers says. “Then get some rest. Big day tomorrow, training starts at 0600.”

Stark groans dramatically, but doesn’t actually protest. Then he gets in a tug-of-war of sorts with Thor over the salt-and-pepper shrimp. Tasha hogs all the seafood rolls, and Banner gives her one loaded look before resignedly reaching for the roast duck.

It’s a lie, Clint reminds himself, as he watches Loki gaze around the table, looking slightly bewildered. This vulnerability, this tractability, this hesitant, guarded hint-of-a-smile. 

 _Liesmith_ , the legends call Loki. _Silvertongue_.

 _I have no choice_ , Loki had said, that day on the Helicarrier, when Clint had asked for the truth.

But Clint knows all about not having a choice, and he knows that answer was a lie, just as every word that has ever come out of Loki’s mouth has been a lie.

He believed Loki once; he won’t make that mistake again.

 

_Three weeks is plenty of time to prepare for a mission, especially if paperwork isn’t actually necessary. He’s gone on assignment many times before, sometimes for years, and he knows how to create the perfect cover._

_He knows how to disappear into the life of another person, how to shut everything that makes him_ him _in a box, retaining only the things that he needs for the mission, and leave the box behind._

_He knows how to become someone else._

_This the only way he can play this, he knows. He has to have a cover. He has to be someone else._

_Someone who never sat back and watched as Loki killed people. Someone who never helped him call forth and unleash an alien army down on the world. Someone who never stood beside Loki as he plotted to bring humanity to its knees._

_Someone who never thought, not once, not even for a second, that that’s exactly where he belongs._

Observe _, the Director had said._ Report.

Don’t get compromised.

_Agent Barton had been compromised._

_Agent Barton hadn’t been ready._

_This time, he will be._

_This time, he’s going in as Hawkeye._

 

 “Here,” Hawkeye says, and passes Loki a plate of noodles.

 


End file.
